I whip around. “You signed up?”
He shrugs like this isn’t about to turn half the bar into a puddle of melted panties. No one even breathes as he takes the stage. He looks down at the mic almost shyly, and it’s too freaking adorable. Hotness and humility are a deadly combination on any man. On an athlete wearing a suit? It’s nuclear. Ovaries explode inside and around me.
The opening notes start. U2’s “Running to Stand Still” is bluesy and gritty. A few keys of a guitar strum. The mic rests easy in Tristan’s hand, his stance loose. And then he starts to sing.
Not the kind of karaoke that’s showy or loud. His low voice is naturally suited to the gritty vibe of the song. The notes drag themselves across gravel before he sings them. There’s something magnetic about the way he holds back. Not shy, but restrained. As if he’s holding the song’s emotion in check.
When he sings“You got to cry without weeping / talk without speaking / scream without raising your voice,”a frisson of awareness makes my body erupt in goosebumps. The lyrics seemprofound, yet there’s no effusive emphasis. Tristan sings straight through. Nothing flashy. He simply leans into the lyrics, allowing the blues rhythm to carry the performance.
By the time he hits the chorus, the whole bar is into it, shouting“la-la di day”as if we’re singing around a campfire. People are smiling, swaying in place, raising their drinks, throwing arms around friends’ shoulders.
He stares at me when he sings“she’s running to stand still.”Tristan might be looking at me, but I see something raw in his expression. It’s like he’s telling me a secret he’d never speak aloud. Like maybehe’sthe one running to stand still.
His voice softens toward the end, floating to a wisp of a sound more moving because of its subtlety. When the last note fades, everyone claps, whistles, yells for another. Tristan doesn’t linger. He gives the crowd a quick smile, thanks the DJ, then walks back in my direction.
I can’t move, not even to clap. My chest expands but fails to deliver oxygen. I feel intoxicated by a single inconvenient truth: I like Tristan a lot. Too much. Way more than I should.
When we graduated from high school and shared a hot kiss, I foolishly entertained the possibility ofsomething. My young, immature heart thought that the passion we shared would last till morning. I never expected him to ask me on a date. OK, I had hoped, but neverexpected.At the very least, I thought we’d share a phone call or a freaking ice cream during summer break. As far as expectations went, mine were basement-level low. He never even acknowledged that the kiss happened, ghosting me without an explanation.
If that rejection stung ten years ago, how will a sex-induced fling affect me today?
I am a serial monogamist. I’m not used to casual hookups. It would serve me well to remember that sleeping with Tristan again would be a colossal mistake. Making out with him in the hallway,as enticing as that sounds, is a terrible plan. Inviting him over would be akin to inviting disaster. He might be the record holder of my orgasm count, but our night together is one and done.
I brace myself. “Can we chat for a minute alone?”
His eyes sparkle before he tracks my solemn expression. My face is probably broadcasting the uncomfortable conversation ahead.
Outside, the sky is velvet blue-black. The air carries a late October bite. Cold prickles my cheeks and sneaks down my nape. Arms crossed over my chest fail to keep me warm. Tristan’s face is half illuminated by a flickering neon sign. The thrum of karaoke and laughter turns into a dull backdrop.
I offer the world’s weakest, “You killed it.” But what I want to say is:You’re devastating.
He rocks on his heels, hands in his pockets. “I was singing it for this girl, but not sure that’s working out for me.”
I roll my eyes. “That worked on alotof girls, and you know it.”
He steps closer. “I only want it to work on one.”
He brushes my hair off my forehead. Two swipes before dropping his hand. The tension between us fizzles. The breeze settles. Even the air waits to see what happens next.
“Why didn’tyouinvite me tonight?” He looks away and then back at me, hinting at insecurity. The compulsion to kiss his pout nearly breaks my resolve.
“I didn’t have to invite you. Toby was on it.”
“You know what I mean. It’s been two weeks, Ligaya. You knew I wanted to see you again.”
The statement lands like a ripple in still water. Not a demand, but a gentle prodding. I swallow. “About that . . .”
“Uh-oh.”
“Here’s the thing. I talked about a one-night stand and getting this out of our system, but I’ve never really done casual sex. I’m not built for it. A fling isn’t for me. It’s not what I want.”
“What do you want?” he rasps, eyes roaming my face and landing on my lips.
“Honestly? I hadn’t dated in a while and having a one-night stand with you, I realized that I’m ready to go out there again.”
He huffs, eyes narrowed in suspicion or annoyance. Probably both.
“Let me get this straight. Sleeping with me is what convinced you to sleep with other guys?”
